TO * * * *

             HADST thou liv'd in days of old,
             O what wonders had been told
             Of thy lively countenance,
             And thy humid eyes that dance
             In the midst of their own brightness;
             In the very fane of lightness.
             Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,
             Picture out each lovely meaning:
             In a dainty bend they lie,
             Like to streaks across the sky,                          10
             Or the feathers from a crow,
             Fallen on a bed of snow.
             Of thy dark hair that extends
             Into many graceful bends:
             As the leaves of Hellebore
             Turn to whence they sprung before.
             And behind each ample curl
             Peeps the richness of a pearl.
             Downward too flows many a tress
             With a glossy waviness;                                  20
             Full, and round like globes that rise
             From the censer to the skies
             Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness
             Of thy honied voice; the neatness
             Of thine ankle lightly turn'd:
             With those beauties, scarce discern'd,
             Kept with such sweet privacy,
             That they seldom meet the eye
             Of the little loves that fly
             Round about with eager pry.                              30
             Saving when, with freshening lave,
             Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave;
             Like twin water lillies, born
             In the coolness of the morn.
             O, if thou hadst breathed then,
             Now the Muses had been ten.
             Couldst thou wish for lineage higher
             Than twin sister of Thalia?
             At least for ever, evermore,
             Will I call the Graces four.                             40

             Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry
             Lifted up her lance on high,
             Tell me what thou wouldst have been?
             Ah! I see the silver sheen
             Of thy broidered, floating vest
             Cov'ring half thine ivory breast;
             Which, O heavens! I should see,
             But that cruel destiny
             Has placed a golden cuirass there;
             Keeping secret what is fair.                             50
             Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested
             Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:
             O'er which bend four milky plumes
             Like the gentle lilly's blooms
             Springing from a costly vase.
             See with what a stately pace
             Comes thine alabaster steed;
             Servant of heroic deed!
             O'er his loins, his trappings glow
             Like the northern lights on snow.                        60
             Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!
             Sign of the enchanter's death;
             Bane of every wicked spell;
             Silencer of dragon's yell.
             Alas! thou this wilt never do:
             Thou art an enchantress too,
             And wilt surely never spill
             Blood of those whose eyes can kill.

Keats, John. 1884. Poetical Works.